The Refugees eBook

them, and the clumsy old vehicle bounding along in
a way which threw him backwards and forwards from one
seat to the other. Behind him he could hear a
shout of consternation from the escort, and then the
rush of galloping hoofs. Away they flew, the
roadside poplars dancing past at either window, the
horses thundering along with their stomachs to the
earth, and that demon driver still waving those horrible
red hands in the moonlight and screaming out to the
maddened steeds. Sometimes the carriage jolted
one way, sometimes another, swaying furiously, and
running on two side wheels as though it must every
instant go over. And yet, fast as they went,
their pursuers went faster still. The rattle
of their hoofs was at their very backs, and suddenly
at one of the windows there came into view the red,
distended nostrils of a horse. Slowly it drew
forward, the muzzle, the eye, the ears, the mane,
coming into sight as the rider still gained upon them,
and then above them the fierce face of Despard and
the gleam of a brass pistol barrel.

“At the horse, Despard, at the horse!”
cried an authoritative voice from behind.

The pistol flashed, and the coach lurched over as
one of the horses gave a convulsive spring.
But the driver still shrieked and lashed with his
whip, while the carriage bounded onwards.

But now the road turned a sudden curve, and there,
right in front of them, not a hundred paces away,
was the Seine, running cold and still in the moonshine.
The bank on either side of the highway ran straight
down without any break to the water’s edge.
There was no sign of a bridge, and a black shadow
in the centre of the stream showed where the ferry-boat
was returning after conveying some belated travellers
across. The driver never hesitated, but gathering
up the reins, he urged the frightened creatures into
the river. They hesitated, however, when they
first felt the cold water about their hocks, and even
as they did so one of them, with a low moan, fell
over upon her side. Despard’s bullet had
found its mark. Like a flash the coachman hurled
himself from the box and plunged into the stream;
but the pursuing horsemen were all round him before
this, and half-a-dozen hands had seized him ere he
could reach deep water, and had dragged him to the
bank. His broad hat had been struck off in the
struggle, and De Catinat saw his face in the moonshine.
Great heavens! It was Amos Green.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE DUNGEON OF PORTILLAC.

The desperadoes were as much astonished as was De
Catinat when they found that they had recaptured in
this extraordinary manner the messenger whom they
had given up for lost. A volley of oaths and
exclamations broke from them, as, on tearing off the
huge red coat of the coachman, they disclosed the
sombre dress of the young American.

“A thousand thunders!” cried one.
“And this is the man whom that devil’s
brat Latour would make out to be dead!”